Diablo: Moon of the Spider

by Richard A. Knaak

  The first priest suddenly reached for the dagger. You’ll not need that, holy one. Tokaric has the proper blade. Let me relieve you of that burden.

  “No!” Zayl could suddenly not recall why he wanted to keep his dagger, but he would not let it go.

  As you wish for now, holy one. The macabre figure attempted as best he could a placating smile.

  We are nearly there, holy one, added the second, his jaw swinging with each word.

  The necromancer forced his gaze forward … and beheld an endless array of stone altars running on and on until eternity. Each was octagonal in shape and upon each was chained screaming, writhing forms.

  All of whom, Zayl saw, had been flayed alive.

  They cry from eagerness …, said the first.

  Praise Astrogha! uttered the second reverently.

  But the Rathmian shook his head. “This is wrong. This is an unbalancing of the All!”

  They seemed not to hear his protest. With strength that their cadaverous conditions belied, the priests all but dragged Zayl toward the first of the altars. There, two more decaying figures in the spider robes met them with deep bows.

  The moon is nigh upon us, said the taller of the pair, a thing so decrepit that only the voice hinted that it had once been female.

  Astrogha is ascendant, added her companion, whose more rotund stomach squirmed under the festering garment. Several arachnids of various sizes and ferocious appearance scrambled in and out of the tears in the robe.

  The first of the victims screamed wordlessly.

  The female cadaver softly stroked the victim’s skinned head. Let us not leave him waiting any longer, holy one. He yearns to be a part of Astrogha’s glory.

  “Yes … of course …” Zayl slowly raised the ivory dagger.

  Not that blade! she immediately interjected, catching his wrist. In her withered hand, she held up another dagger. It was utterly black and had etched on its hilt a wicked, eight-legged pattern.

  At the same time, the first priest again attempted to peel Zayl’s fingers from the ivory blade. His efforts proved for naught, however, and at last the ghoulish group was satisfied when the disoriented necromancer instead took the black weapon in his free hand.

  Over the heart, urged the heavy priest. Two swift slices and the organ comes out still beating …

  “The heart,” Zayl muttered. His eyes swept over the agonized figure. The upper layers of skin had clearly been flayed with great expertise, enabling the victim to live through it. The Rathmian suspected a potion of some sort had been administered to the man before his torture so that shock would not kill him, either.

  With the decaying priests to guide his hand, Zayl prepared to cut into the chest cavity. Two swift slices. They would have to be deep ones if he wanted to reach in and immediately grab the heart.

  He glanced at his own weapon. It would really be best to be rid of the other dagger. It had nothing to do with Astrogha’s sacrifices and would only make tearing the vital organ out that much more troublesome.

  But before he could hand it to one of his companions, the priest with only a partial jaw gazed up and declared, The Moon of the Spider is upon us! Astrogha is with us!

  Zayl looked up.

  The moon was a perfect sphere, round and gleaming. At first, it was completely pale, but then over the upper edge shadows crept. They flowed down in one river after another until there were eight. Then, as the first of them reached midway down, a larger, round patch of blackness followed.

  And in seconds, the gargantuan form of an arachnid filled much of the moon. Zayl stared at it, stunned by how real the shadow seemed.

  You must strike now! insisted the female, whispering in his ear.

  Strike now! urged the first priest.

  Strike now!

  Strike now!

  The robed figures flanking the other altars took up the new chant. Strike now …strike now …

  Strike now and the blessing of Astrogha will be upon you! the flayed victim suddenly declared, lidless eyes burning into the necromancer’s own. You will be the vessel of my glorious renewal! You will be a god among mortals!

  Zayl’s hand faltered. He shook his head and when one of the decaying priests sought to help him finish, the Rathmian suddenly tore away.

  “No! By Rathma, by Odyssian, by Theroni—I command you to be gone!”

  The ghoulish figures moved toward him. Now, holy one, began the very first. You have a duty to fulfill. A destiny. Give me the white blade and all will be understood and accepted by you.

  “I will give you a blade, certainly.” Zayl shifted his grip on the black dagger, then threw it at the demonic speaker.

  The sinister weapon sank not into the priest’s chest—for what heart would remain after so long?—but rather the head, where the necromancer knew that the force animating this corpse linked to it.

  The dagger buried itself in the skull. The priest’s hands jerked to the spot, where they feebly tugged at the hilt.

  The ghoul collapsed in a ghastly pile of rotting meat, bones, and cloth.

  The female figure lunged toward Zayl, the others right behind her. You must complete the sacrifices!

  Zayl held his own dagger before them, repeating the names and adding to them. “By Rathma, by Odyssian, by Theroni, by the Jalak, by Mumryth of the Wing, by Trag’Oul, I cast you all away! I deny this place, this monstrous realm!”

  The rest of the undead priests converged on Zayl, a swarm whose form became more horrific as they neared. They reached for him with claws and hungering mouths. To the necromancer, it was the nightmare of Ureh relived … only this time they would tear off more than just his hand.

  Muttering under his breath, Zayl summoned the Den’Trag, the Teeth of Trag’Oul. The air before him filled with gleaming projectiles that immediately shot forth at the monstrous horde. The first of the ranks, including the original priests, fell, pincushioned by the powerful spikes. The bodies twisted and turned, then melted, fading away to nothing but tiny red puddles.

  But still legions poured toward him. Although he knew the effort would prove fruitless, Zayl glanced behind him in the hopes of finding some escape.

  And there, but a few yards distant, a white hole beckoned.

  Aware that it might be a trick, Zayl nonetheless ran. He could not stay and fight indefinitely. His escape from the hypnotic spell cast over him had been a fortunate turn, but against such numbers, he would surely succumb.

  As the cloaked spellcaster neared it, the hole suddenly flared. Zayl covered his eyes and held out his dagger, certain that he had stepped into yet another trap.

  Instead, from behind him he heard a tremendous moan. Daring to look back, the Rathmian saw the first ranks of the demonic priests turn to dust in mid-stride.

  Whispering an oath to Trag’Oul, Zayl threw himself into the hole. Behind him, he heard the outraged hiss of something far more malevolent than the throng of undead. Something struck his back and he felt his momentum almost slow to a halt.

  At that moment, the hole closed—

  And in the next instant, a deluge of rain poured down on the startled necromancer. He fell to the ground with a heavy thud, every bone quivering.

  Thunder briefly deafened him. Stiff and weak, Zayl lay there for several minutes. Had the undead horde fallen upon him then, he could have done nothing to stop them from ripping him apart.

  Gradually, though, his breathing became regular and the agony coursing through his body subsided to something tolerable. Blinking clear his eyes, the necromancer finally surveyed his surroundings.

  A thick, shrouded forest of pines and oaks greeted his gaze. A steady rain beat down on him. Despite Zayl’s exceptional vision, he could not see very far or very much. It was night, which made him suspect that he had not been long out of his cell, and the forest looked like one he would have expected to find in Westmarch.

  But where was the city? In every direction, the Rathmian saw only more shadowed trees.

  Slowly it registere
d to him that he still held his dagger in his left hand. Holding up the mystical blade, Zayl muttered a short spell.

  The blade flared bright for a moment, then dimmed slightly.

  Zayl turned in a circle, muttering as he moved. A third of the way around, the dagger suddenly flared again.

  So, he was at least in the vicinity of the city. How far, though, the necromancer could not say. He suspected that he was in for a long walk.

  The rain continued to pour. A mist began to take shape, adding to the murkiness of the forest. Zayl adjusted his cloak and hood, then started off.

  The nightmare through which he had just suffered remained burned in both his mind and body. He had come very close to being lost to the foul entity that had invaded the cell. Worse, Zayl had the growing belief that it had sought not just his soul, but his body as well.

  But why? Who—or what—was Astrogha? His symbol was the spider. Zayl knew that he should have recognized one or both, but that knowledge, like the identity of the mysterious Karybdus, had likely been blocked from his consciousness.

  The other necromancer and this Astrogha clearly had to be linked. Was Karybdus a Vizjerei who sought some legacy of Astrogha’s ancient rule? Clearly, the events in the vision were a twisted version of something that had happened long ago. The priests had once been living, breathing men and women completely devoted to their foul master. It would not be the first time that an avaricious Vizjerei had delved into lost and forbidden realms in his lust for power.

  The ground dipped as he headed toward Westmarch. Zayl considered what he knew of the land and guessed that he was not far from the mountains that he had seen when first arriving. Likely if it had not been so dark and misty, he would have been able to make them out between the treetops. If so, it meant that the weary spellcaster had been correct when he had guessed that his return would take some doing.

  And what then? They would discover him gone and the guard brutally slain. There would be no doubt in anyone’s mind—even Salene’s—that he had been the butcher responsible. Every man and woman would do their part to hunt him down.

  Salene. Zayl found himself more disturbed by her belief in his evil than by everything else, yet he doubted that he could ever make her see the truth. He himself would have found it impossible.

  Perhaps it would have been best to abandon all matters concerning Westmarch, but the necromancer could not. Even if he had not already become so embroiled in them, it was clear that something ominous stretched over much of the land. If he simply abandoned his efforts, it would be as if he himself had worked to upset the Balance and sent the world into the talons of the Prime Evils.

  His boots sank in the torrent-soaked ground. Zayl’s progress slowed, but his determination grew. He had sworn an oath to the spirits of Rathma and Trag’Oul. He had given over his life to his calling, forsaking all other paths. The way of Rathma had allowed him in some small manner to redeem himself for his own transgressions …

  How Zayl wished again that another of his kind might be found here, especially one of the elders who had instructed him. But Falaya, gaunt Horus, and the faceless Nil were on the other side of the Twin Seas … assuming that the eternal struggle had not taken them since last he and they had met. Likely there were a handful of younger Rathmians here and there in the Western Kingdoms, but if there had been any others nearby, Zayl surely would have sensed them and they him.

  It is up to you alone, he chided himself. Is that not the way you always desired it? You alone … all alone?

  A harsh, animalistic roar suddenly cut through the thunder and rain. Something huge crashed through the misty forest.

  Bringing up the dagger, Zayl summoned more light. He had a brief glimpse of a towering figure with eyes of red and fur of a thick white-brown. It moved like a man, yet also like a beast.

  Then … it was gone into the forest once more.

  But the necromancer was not lulled by its vanishing. He spun around, using the dagger and his heightened senses to search for the creature.

  What was it? No bear; it was far too manlike. There were traits that Zayl could recall from the momentary glimpse that reminded him of something else, something from his teachings …

  The leaves behind him rustled ever so slightly.

  Zayl rolled away just as a giant shape lunged at where he had been. The necromancer attempted to cut at it as it went past, but the creature proved quite agile for its size and twisted out of range.

  The beast did not hesitate, bounding into the forest again and vanishing as if it had never been.

  Breathing heavily, the Rathmian waited. When several seconds passed and the huge figure did not return, he cautiously rose. But by no manner of the imagination did he believe himself safe. With the two attacks, the beast had taken his measure. When next it returned, it would take him.

  Drawing three symbols in the air, Zayl pointed the blade at where he had last seen his elusive adversary. Unfortunately, the dagger’s glow—now supposedly focused on the beast—revealed nothing.

  He waited. Nothing happened. Finally, the necromancer was forced to moved on. He knew that the rain and thunder would make it difficult to hear anything unless it was right upon him, which by then would be too late. Each footstep took an eternity as Zayl’s anticipation of some sort of attack grew.

  It is only an animal, he told himself. You are a man. You can outthink it.

  But Rathma had taught that in nature everything worked to maintain the Balance. Therefore, where humans had gained the upper hand in intelligence and tools, the beasts of the forest had grown more silent, more swift.

  More deadly.

  There were several spells which he could use against it, but only if he saw the creature before it took him. In many ways, he faced a far more dangerous enemy than a Vizjerei or the undead priests.

  A crackle of lightning illuminated the region. The necromancer made good use of the momentary light, eyes registering everything made visible. Yet still there was no hint of his adversary.

  Had it abandoned him for simpler prey? Zayl had his doubts, but if it still pursued, then why had it not attacked again?

  He stumbled along for several minutes more, wary of every shadow and movement. The ground dipped more steeply, the incline such that the soaked spellcaster had to hold on to underbrush with his right hand as he made his way down to more even land.

  A trickle of water caught his attention. Squinting, Zayl barely made out a stream running across his path. With great caution, he put one foot into the water, then another—

  From out of nowhere, a great fist caught him across the face.

  The necromancer slipped into the stream, his dagger flying. Again, he heard the bloodcurdling cry of earlier and the sound of splashing. With a rush of water pouring across his backside, Zayl looked up.

  The outline of a brutish giant filled his gaze.

  Zayl’s left hand instinctively shot to the side. The dagger flew from where it had fallen, landing neatly in his palm.

  He brought it up and fed the full force of his will into its illumination.

  The area erupted with light as if a dozen bolts from the sky had struck simultaneously. The beast let loose a startled roar and instinctively covered its eyes.

  And for the first time, Zayl beheld the wendigo.

  It was indeed built like a man, but disproportionately, for although its legs were thick, hairy trunks and its lower torso was twice as wide as Zayl’s, they were dwarfed in comparison to the barrel chest and the colossal shoulders, which surely spread six feet across. The shoulders had to be so gargantuan, for the brutish arms attached to them would have served any army as a good pair of battering rams. Each fist was wide enough to take Zayl’s head whole and clearly had the strength with which to crush his skull without difficulty. It was a wonder that the Rathmian was alive, much less conscious. The runes he had forced from X’y’Laq had clearly worked.

  As for the wendigo’s head, it was a squat, heavy thing that, at first glance, seeme
d to have slipped off. It stood not on the end of a neck that was in turn perched atop shoulders—as a man’s would have been—but was planted deep in the chest, essentially making the creature look hunchbacked. The wendigo had a thick brow ridge and a flat nose akin to the primates of Kehjistan, but there was some human shape to the head, and the eyes would have seemed so, too, if not for the fiery red madness in them.

  The giant roared again, revealing the sharp teeth of a carnivore … and one who supposedly favored human flesh. From the legends that Zayl had read, that had not always been the case. The Men of the Wild—as the Rathmians termed them—had once been known as quiet, reclusive people, but that had changed over the past few generations. The taint of the Prime Evils had touched even their pure souls, reducing them to these marauders. While they caused havoc among humans, the true pain was that it was inevitable that the wendigos and their like would become the first losses in the struggle for the Balance. Men would and had already began to hunt them down, their lush coats a bonus since they were sought after by the wealthy.

  Zayl regretted the fall of the wendigo’s kind, but not enough to give up his own life as a feast to this creature. As the giant recovered, the necromancer turned his blade downward, then cast.

  A pale blue shimmer momentarily surrounded the wendigo, raising its fur. The beast let out a grunt, but, after seeing that nothing else happened, reached for Zayl.

  And, at that point, a lightning bolt struck the monster head-on.

  The force of the bolt tossed the screaming wendigo like a tiny toy across the area. The giant collided with a tree, which snapped under the impact, the upper portion of it landing several yards to Zayl’s right.

  Legs shaking, the necromancer straightened. He eyed the darkened form lying amidst the wreckage of the tree stump. The smell of singed fur touched Zayl’s nostrils.

  The wendigo did not move.

  “Rathma be praised …,” Zayl murmured. With both his strength and his concentration on the wane, he had doubted his ability to do anything should his last spell have failed. He had made the wendigo a virtual magnet to the harsh effects of both elemental magic and the very elements themselves, hoping most of all that the storm would react immediately. To his good fortune, it had.